


You Said I Was Poetry, but You've Only Read the First Book of the Percy Jackson Series, so How Would You Know?

by BoostSpoon



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, BBH and Antfrost are worried roomies, Confessions, Dream works at Starbucks because I said so, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Poetry, Strangers to Lovers, george is an idiot, hi friends!, no beta we die like men, uhh have this, we been knew
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 16:28:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29298912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoostSpoon/pseuds/BoostSpoon
Summary: It’s much simpler to approach the poem this way, too rather than try to define it by its effect, its tone, its themes or aspirations.George looks at the number and thinks that maybe he could try to write a stanza on his enigmatic approach to Dream, but for that he would have to take the chance and add Dream’s contact. To find out what lingers behind the delicately folded chapters and the words of his story.Or, George is a Comp-Sci major with a fascination with poetry. Dream works at Starbucks and has only read (and enjoyed) the Lightning Thief by Rick Riordan. Both meet, read each other's recommendations, and fall in love with each other (and agree to disagree with each other's book recs).**TW: "Percy Jackson and the Olympians" slander. Read at your own risk**
Relationships: Antfrost & Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound & Darryl Noveschosch & Sapnap, Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), GeorgeNotFound & Darryl Noveschosch
Comments: 27
Kudos: 164





	You Said I Was Poetry, but You've Only Read the First Book of the Percy Jackson Series, so How Would You Know?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Silvergoldrose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silvergoldrose/gifts).



> **TW: "Percy Jackson and the Olympians" slander. Read with utmost caution**
> 
> Hey Tears! Idea gang! My lovely girlfriend! My readers! A few things before you start:
> 
> 1) _Oh, Icarus_ has been taken down. I violated a CCs boundaries due to me misreading, and I will never make that mistake again. As much as people loved the fic, it will only be shared with my close friends, who know so much about this AU. I am so sorry to anyone this may effect.
> 
> 2) This is inspired by a poetry textbook. This entire fic. It's very funny, and, no, I will never share the context. I love you Tears! Hope you like this!

“Alright, I believe that’s all the time we have for today. Your papers are due tomorrow at 8:15pm  _ sharp _ . I hope you all have a good day.” George’s professor huffed as his students hurriedly went through the doors, squeezing tightly against each other like a herd of wildebeests. Eager to talk to friends and grab a bite of lunch. Before their afternoon classes and such.

George's stomach growled in anticipation of tom yum goong and pad thai noodles that usually constituted as his daily lunch. Ever since George and his two roommates, Bad and Antfrost, discovered the little Thai place their freshman year of college, it had been their lunch spot. Usually resulting in most of the food being eaten in silence as the three did their studying or coursework that was due for their professors sooner or later.

Today was a little different though, after Bad had said he was a tad busy trying to study for his psychology final and Ant had told George that his boyfriend planned a study date for him, the lanky brunette could only simply give an answer of affirmation. Even as Ant tried to apologize for the sudden change of plans, George merely waved it off as if it were no big deal. Adding in that his friend should be able to enjoy himself before they're swamped with college junior year finals. Which seemed to make Antfrost feel better.

Now here George was, staring angrily at the  _ Sorry! We're Closed! _ sign attached to the glass window. Taunting him as he stood outside in the blistering heat of a May afternoon. His stomach gave yet another growl as he muttered a curse under his breath. George sits down on one of the (many) stone benches placed around the small city-like campus, pulling out his phone and looking at Google Maps to find another place to eat. 

As he is scrolling through the restaurant suggestions Google has given him, George hears the soft  _ thwap!  _ of paper hit the floor and the sound forces the brunette to look up from his phone momentarily. Picking up the book and holding it in one hand, his phone still scrolling through the lists his phone’s navigation app is displaying. 

Lightly brushing off the paperback against his upper pant leg, eyes still on his screen, George sees a Starbucks only a few blocks away from his apartment. Not particularly being a fan of their food, but admitting they have good coffee and decent internet service, the brunette starts walking in the direction of his apartment. Shooting a quick text to Bad, asking if he wanted anything from the coffee shop.

Bad’s response is quick and to the point:  _ Yes, please! Just get me one of those Dragonfruit Refreshers and a muffin (if they have any) :) _

George sends his roommate a quick  _ Alright, gotcha :) _ before slipping his phone in his pocket and flipping to the bookmarked page of  _ Inside Poetry _ he was currently on.

You see, everyone has a guilty pleasure. Something they’re passionate about in the private of their own minds. Hobbies and hyper-fixations that you never reveal to friends because you’re nervous that they’ll make fun of you or look at you differently for it. And sure, most guilty pleasures were more extreme than most, but George’s was pretty tame (the brunette would like to think so, at least).

George’s guilty pleasure was indulging in poetry. 

George liked how there were no set rules to writing poems. That you could rhyme or make discordance make sense and people would look for all the little intricacies in the chaos, coming up with their own diamonds of knowledge. The fact that you could write a poem on a piece of gum you stepped on in the street and someone will take that as a metaphor for the chains that bind all of us as people to status quos we idolize so intensely. That touches George’s heart in a way he couldn’t possibly ever explain to anyone else.

The other problem was that George didn’t major in English or Creative Writing at all. No, his major was in Computer Sciences, where he hoped his degree would let him explore new technological heights and expand his coding prowess. And it isn’t that he’s concerned that his roommates (his only friends at the moment) would suddenly change if he told them (Bad and Antfrost are truly the most supportive people George has ever met), it’s just that George likes the secrecy of having something to himself.    
  
Also, granted, he’s only just beginning in that area and he was so, so lucky to have found the little book in his hands for only $3.00 at a church sale a few weeks ago.

George looks up from the book ( _ Chapter 2: What Are We Talking About  _ is the title. He’s a painfully slow reader) after he finds himself at the doors of the Starbucks, almost running into a family in his reading venture. Quickly apologizing, George closes the pages of the book around the bookmark, proceeds to use more force than necessary to open the door, and proceeds to walk inside the establishment. Feeling a little small and slightly intimidated as the brunette surveys his surroundings, not remembering Starbucks being this big. Or crowded.

Quickly, George slips the book into his bag, making sure the zipper is closed all the way, and proceeds to go up to the counter to place his order. Noticing no barista was there, he tapped his fingers on the counter, resisting the urge to hum or shift his feet in discomfort to prevent from drawing attention to himself. And so he waits, checking his phone to avoid the gaze of the other patrons. All while his stomach continues to growl and his next class is in two hours.

Something from the corner of his eye makes George look up from his sixth time checking his phone in the last twenty or so minutes of him standing here. The line had been building up slowly and the brunette could feel the people in the line behind him staring at him, waiting for their turn to order. George looks up at and sees a man with dirty blonde hair that seems like it would shine so brilliantly in the sun, yet still manages to give off a sheen akin to spun gold in the dim lighting Starbucks has. His eyes looked like amber-ish yellow gems (or were they green?) that only made his stupid loopy smile stand out more. It didn’t change the fact that George’s stomach was still eating him alive and he should have gotten Bad’s drink a little while back, but he’ll settle what he can get. The barista, whose name tag read  _ Dream _ , was looking at George expectantly. Waiting for him to order.   
  
“Could I have two Mango Dragon Fruit Refreshers, a Chicken Caprese Panini, and a Blueberry Muffin?” The barista taking his order--Dream--muttered something under his breath, and George has to not snap at the (probably underpaid and exhausted) man. No matter how  pretty annoying he is. 

“Yeah, for sure. For here or to go?” George’s patience is starting to wear thin like threads, and he silently prays that he doesn’t lose his shit. Even though the barista is literally doing his job.

“Here.” Dream looks at him in a little bit of confusion, and George hears how awfully snappy that sounded. Sure, the brunette was hungry and this setting didn’t help his anxiety at all, but he didn’t need to be so crass.

“Do you have a name, Snappy?”    
  
“It’s George. Not Snappy.”

“If you say so, Snappy.”

Dream tells George his total and George pulls out his credit card, placing the rectangular piece of plastic down hard enough on the counter to release a sharp  _ slap! _ , and putting a ten dollar bill in the tips jar for good measure. The barista seems to see this, but doesn’t comment on it when he takes the card, swipes it, presses a few buttons, and returns the brunette’s card to him. George takes the card, and their fingers brush together, causing George to start turning red. Mumbling a curt  _ Thank you _ and speed walking towards a booth seat to wait for his order, before Dream can say or do anything else.

Getting settled into a little corner booth, George pulls out  _ Inside Poetry  _ again. Analyzing and pouring over the highlighted sentences and notes in the margins he had scrawled at two A.M. on sticky notes hanging onto the pages loosely. Filled with stanzas and quotes that he thought were good or important to know. 

  
  


“Uhm, not to be a bother,” George jumps, startled from his concentration harshly turns to see Dream in the middle of placing the drinks and food he had ordered on the table, “But here’s your order, Snappy.”

“ _ I  _ snap at  _ you  _ once, and now that’s my nickname? We aren’t even friends, so you don’t even get nickname rights.” George sticks out his tongue at the blonde for good measure, seeing as he’s already acted childishly enough already in front of the barista, and starts to slide the magenta covered book from Dream’s view on the table to a space in his seat that was next to George. 

Or, at least, he tried to. Dream ended up putting his hand on the little book, stopping it’s path effectively. His hands so close to George’s fingers, George was starting to feel the blood rush to his cheeks. He hopes the dim lighting of the Starbucks would hide it a little bit.

Dream looks from the book to George, and knows what the blonde wants from him. So, to the surprise of himself, George sighs and takes his hand off of the cover, letting the other man take it into his hands. 

Dream proceeds to take out a Sharpie from his (piss colored) yellow apron, and George starts to protest, but the barista quickly scrawls something on the inside cover, closes and skims the cover just as quick, and hands the book back to George. The brunette practically snatches the poetry book back, almost hugging it close to his chest.    
  
“Now we’re friends, Snappy. I get off of work at five, so you can message me then! See you again.” Dream laughs as he gives a little wink, then turns to walk back behind the counter as George stares in disbelief. Feeling the heat of their exchange burn him up more so than the summer day outside. Certain that Dream was gone, and from seeing him taking the orders of more patrons, the brunette picks up his drink. Inserts the straw and proceeds to drink the vaporwave purple concoction looking at what exactly Dream had written there.

What George sees nearly makes him choke midway through his current slurp, as he stares at the message Dream had left him.

_ Don’t judge my book by it’s cover, and I won’t judge yours. Now that you have my number, we aren’t strangers anymore. ☺️ _

George’s eyes reread the message a few more times, mouth agape, his Chicken Caprese half eaten and cheeks for sure on fire by now. The only thing that made him finally close  _ Inside Poetry _ was the fact that his phone started vibrating in his pocket. Making George scramble to take it out, see the contact, and immediately press the Answer button.

“Hey Bad, sorry I got held up a bit. The line was  _ so _ long.” George chews his lip as he starts to rush putting his items away. Tucking the phone between his ear and his shoulder like he had seen his mother do so many times as a child. Listening intently to Bad ramble.

“I was just worried. Ant and I sent so many texts, and you didn’t respond, you muffinhead! Do you need a ride back from Starbucks? Is there someone you met that made you stay so long?  _ How are centaurs not considered insects even though they have six limbs? _ ” George tries to stifle his laughter as he tells his concerned friend that he can just walk and that the exercise is good for him anyways. Seemingly placating Bad’s worry, because Bad ends the call with a  _ Be safe! Don’t talk to strangers! I’ll see you soon, you muffin! _ and hangs up the call. Allowing George to let out a sigh as he walks toward the doors he had entered just an hour or so before.

And as he walks out the door, still having to push on it with more force than necessary with his stick arms, George can’t help but think of what Dream wrote about judging a book by his cover and the rhyme scheme he used. It made him think of one line in particular from  _ Inside Poetry _ , the thought plaguing him on his walk back to the student dorms.

_ It’s much simpler to approach the poem this way, too rather than try to define it by its effect, its tone, its themes or aspirations. _

George looks at the number and thinks that maybe he could try to write a stanza on his enigmatic approach to Dream, but for that he would have to take the chance and add Dream’s contact. To find out what lingers behind the delicately folded chapters and the words of his story.

⤌--⤍

George finds himself slowly enamored by Dream, as the dirty blonde starts to worm his way into the brunette’s half-baked stanzas and makes George start freehanding the lines, bordering on the point of something beautifully terrifying.

Entering Starbucks, confused after finding the door slightly cracked open with a small rock placed too perfectly between the door and it’s closing notch, George immediately scopes out a bar seat (something he’s been doing a lot these past three months of meeting Dream and talking to him for hours). Settling himself in his seat, the brunette takes out the little  _ Inside Poetry _ book and his small notepad of sticky notes and starts jotting down thoughts he had for specific sections the night prior. Missing the opportunity to label his important findings because Dream and George had texted each other until the wee hours of morning. Opting to talk to the entertaining mess of ADHD ridden Starbucks employee rather than have his head stuck in work required for next semester or absorb himself in the pages of his poetry textbook.

Dream ends up coming up when George least expects it, placing the drinks and Chicken Caprese in front of the brunette as he is finishing up writing a note on a sticky note. George smiles and takes the fruits of his purchase gratefully, handing the blonde barista his card, to which Dream quickly swipes it, presses some buttons on the touchpad screen in front of him, and slides the card back to George with a fluidity the brunette finds himself mesmerized in. He quickly scrawls another half-baked stanza about how the barista’s movements are akin to petals waltzing in the air. 

“Whatcha writing, Snappy?” George covers his notes with his free hand, the other currently holding his barely eaten sandwich upright, as Dream tries to catch a sneak peek. Seemingly not giving two fucks about the half-glare the brunette is giving him.

_ No dice _ , George chuckles lightly and gives the smallest of motion side to side with his head. Dream gives up so easily too, drawing his head back and his cheek rests in his palm as the barista leans on the counter, invoking a pouty look George could only describe as ridiculous, but cute.

Oh, and George may or may not have a tiny crush on said nosy pouting blonde who works at Starbucks.

“What do you want?” George asks, no trace of irritation in his voice. Dream merely huffs as he starts to open his mouth to reply, but an order is called and the blonde huffs in annoyance. Saying something along the lines of  _ I have to take this. Don’t leave without saying goodbye to me first huh? _ and George plays along, taking the bit with a  _ Yes, fine, you big baby. I probably will be staying until closing again. You’re interesting company to have, after all.  _ Dream isn’t surprised when George says that, and the brunette knows Bad and Ant would appreciate the blonde driving their friend home, especially when it gets so dark in the summer. George doesn’t mind the rides either, because, some nights, Dream treats him to late night snow cones that stave off the early August heat even better than Starbucks’ AC ever would.

George looks through  _ Inside Poetry _ yet again, looking at the poems about magpies being baked into blackberry pie and how Emily Dickenson’s crude description of what poetry is (having her head chopped off doesn’t sound fun or pleasant) to gain inspiration for his own stanzas. Noticing slight improvements on his own poetry and slowly gaining more and more confidence to add a minor in Creative Writing to his college experience each day.

“Aww, Dream is thinking? Be very careful with your first thought. Don’t hurt your head, baby, it’s okay.” Dream comes back from helping out his fellow barista, face contorted still in thought and George can’t resist teasing him about it. But something about George calling the blonde  _ baby  _ is truly “living “rent-free in his mind” as Antfrost would say. 

“I’m just wondering...if you aren’t planning on majoring in Creative Writing or English or whatever field that includes poetry, why read about it and take more vigorous notes on it then any of your classes that deal with your major?” George feels a little embarrassed, knowing Dream is right. But he doesn’t sound condescending about it, either. More surprised and even impressed. The brunette finds himself fighting back a smile.

“I guess it’s like how some people like cars or collecting old books or going to libraries or even staying here in a dimly lit Starbucks just to look and talk to a nice boy who's an idiot. I guess you do it because somewhere deep down, you can see bits of yourself belonging to all that. See yourself there in the moment now, and then deciding on staying forever.” Dream purses his lips, looking at George, who is feeling like a proper mess.  _ Ah, I fucked up, huh? _ George bitterly thinks as he focuses on silently finishing his tiny sandwich. Silence goes between the two boys like an iceberg, and the AC running in the establishment can’t compete with the cold weight.

“I’ll let you in on a little secret, Snappy: Literature has never been my thing. Never has; most likely never will be,” the brunette tilts his head at the sudden way Dream broke through the silent tension between them, but gestures for the blonde to go on, “But, your words have inspired me, so I’ll cut you a deal and tell you a secret all at once. Fair?” George doesn’t know what else to do but to give his friend a quick nod. Curiosity reigning his judgement.

“Alright. So, as I was saying, there was only one book I have  _ ever _ read and enjoyed to the fullest someone can enjoy reading (if  _ that _ even is possible),” George giggles a little at that, making Dream grin wider than he was before. George finds that his heart is skipping beats, making them feel like the sharp ticks of iambic pentameter.

“That book was  _ The Lightning Thief _ , George.” And suddenly the brunette  _ knows  _ two important things right now: One, that he’s fallen for a man who likes cheesy children’s fiction. Two, that he shouldn’t be laughing as hard as he is at the sudden revelation, lungs feeling on fire and nearly falling out of the barstool. Drawing attention to himself from the patrons, and not caring in the slightest.

“You--you like  _ Percy Jackson and the Olympians _ ? A  _ children’s  _ book? What are you, twelve?” George makes the jabs in kind, making sure to hold his tongue on how he  _ really  _ thinks of fiction (Hint: It’s not a very positive viewpoint, to say the least). The barista just looks down and does that stupidly cute pouty face he used before when he was trying to view the brunette’s chicken scratch stanzas.

“I read it in elementary school a time or two, and I never read it again.” Dream says matter of factly, and George has sip his drink to prevent himself from laughing as heartily as he had been, but the brunette let his shoulders bounce up and down as his only indication of laughter.

“The deal I was thinking of proposing to you, Snappy, was,” Dream continues, not even acknowledging George’s muted laughter. Making George slowly come to his senses as he attempted to listen to what the barista had to say. “That I get to read that funky little poetry book you have, and  _ you  _ get to read  _ The Lightning Thief _ .” The brunette nearly chokes on the swig of Dragonfruit Refresher he had taken into his mouth as the blonde looks pleased. Looking at Dream in disbelief as he slowly manages to swallow the liquid.

“No. Nope. No way.” Ignoring Dream’s protests of  _ Don’t be like that, Snappy  _ and  _ Snappy, it’ll be fun! Trust me! _ as George starts to place his things back into his bag. Almost being able to get out of there before he hears Dream mumble something under his breath. Once again making his curiosity lead the way, gluing him to the seat again.

“What was that, Dream? I couldn’t hear you. Could you repeat yourself?” George banters, but Dream doesn’t give him a response, good or bad, which worries him a little.

“I want to do this,  _ George _ . I feel like I may actually  _ like _ to read if I had something grounded more in reality to read. So, maybe we go out of our comfort zones a little. Isn’t that what it means to live?” The brunette admits that the whole speech was cheesy, but George knows, even against all the hatred in his bones he has for the fiction genre, hearing Dream say his name (his  _ actual  _ name) was intoxicating. And he’d read the whole  _ Percy Jackson and the Olympians _ series + the spinoffs if he could hear the blonde say his name like that again and again and again.

Fuck, he really fell, didn’t he?

“Alright! I concede. Surrender. Whatever other words I can muster that mean ‘give in.’ ” George’s heart does gymnast-style flips when Dream grins his widest and pumps his fist up and down in a swift motion, exclaiming a whisper-shouted  _ Yes!  _ to George’s response. George rolls his eyes as he unzips his bag and sifts through the loose leaf papers left over from his junior semester and assorted candy wrappers shoved in his bag. Feeling the cover of  _ Inside Poetry _ and pulling it out. 

“Wait a fucking minute,” Dream immediately reigns his hands back to his apron pocket as the brunette swats his hand away from the book. “There are rules for my book.” the barista, although now occupied with another customer, seemed to be listening, judging by the quick thumbs up George received from his friend.

“One: it’s a fucking poetry textbook, not  _ De Profoundis _ . Don’t expect it to be read as such,” George looks at Dream to make sure he’s still listening, and the blonde whirls his hand twice. Ushering George to continue on, “And two: You better use sticky notes when you write your review.” George warns with a finality on the last little twist he gave Dream. After Dream gives his usual smile and wave to the last customers in the queue (for now), he looks at George as if he’s gone mad.

“Seriously? You’ve got to be--” The brunette glares at the barista in warning, and Dream relents with a heavy sigh, “I will, I  _ will _ ! Jesus, you sound like Professor Malik.” 

“ _ Always use--”  _ Dream poorly starts to imitate said Professor, but George cuts in: “ _ Always use sticky notes when making astute observations _ . And she’s right you know. You ruin the pages that way if you write your thoughts on them or keep highlighting them too much.”   
  
“Wouldn’t be too different from the way you ruin me, hm?” Dream’s eyes widen, the barista’s hand going to cover his mouth. Seeing his blonde friend blush was definitely something to behold. Yet, George was sad he couldn’t stay long enough to see it all play out. 

“Hey, Dream, turns out I won’t be staying until closing after all. Bad and Ant want me back at the dorm so we can watch a movie together. I’ll catch you later?” George slides the magenta covered book to Dream, feeling a little bit of guilt for giving it away now after having it to himself for so long.   
  
“And you’ll read  _ The Lightning Thief _ ?” Dream takes the small book and places it sideways in his large apron pocket, handing George some of his items as the brunette tosses them into his bag with reckless abandon.   
  
“Uh, yeah, duh. We made a deal, didn’t we?” Dream chuckles and mumbles a  _ Yeah. Yeah we did. _ to the brunette’s question. Looking up, George saw a fondness in his friend's eyes that made him fall further in love.

“I’ll see you around, George. Be safe on your walk home." And with that, George scrambles to collect his belongings and once again has to push against the door as if he is one ant and the door is a boulder. Waving quickly to Dream as his cheeks were on fire and the red covering most of his face was so much more prominent under the lighting of the Starbucks.

Stepping out into the dusk of another hot August day, George quickly searches for  _ Barnes and Noble _ , searches again for  _ The Lightning Thief _ , and proceeds to purchase it without a second thought. 

George knows one thing, though: He loves Dream, even if he has the literature genre awareness of an 11 year old. Even if his book recommendations are shit.

⤌--⤍

George hates it. He hates this book that totally butchers the Greek myths to fit some stupid romance quota needing to be met between teenagers. The brunette thinks the concept is more or less poorly executed, and that Dream (and anyone else who had tried to make George read the  _ Percy Jackson _ series) overhyped the books tenfold.

Of course, keeping true to his word with Dream, George finished the book reluctantly. Dying on the inside at every cheesy interaction between Percy and Annabeth, cringing at the fact that _a grown man is writing teenagers_ _and the dialogue feels so out of place from what teenagers say nowadays_. Bad was concerned for him, and voiced those very concerns one morning, when George had groggily heaved his exhausted limbs out of bed and turned on the Keurig without putting the pot back on it’s base. That was not very fun.

Which is why George is a little nervous, sitting at his usual spot at the counter, while waiting for the barista to finish his shift. Listening to his friend talk about anything and everything except for their respective books. You see, George doesn’t  _ want  _ to shit on the blonde’s only fond memory of reading, but he also doesn’t want to lie to his friend either. That would make him feel even worse than Grover being the third wheel.   
  
“Penny for your thoughts?” George is snapped out of said thoughts by a familiar barista, feeling embarrassed to have been caught spacing out yet again. He’s glad it’s the blonde that catches him slipping. He doesn’t know where he’d be without it.

“Nothing much. Just waiting for either your shift to end or for the roomies to text me anxiously. Nothing new.” The brunette quickly glances at his phone, satisfied in seeing no new notifications on his home screen. Sliding his phone back into his pant pocket.

“Are you bored yet?” George hears Dream ask him. The blonde’s own eyes trained to the register.   
  


“Of you? Never.” the barista’s fingers hover over the screen he’s occupied in shock. Nervously licking his lips at George’s response. Continuing his work when Dream has his bearings gathered.

It’s been this way for a couple of weeks now, this dance they’re playing. Filled with gentle ghostings between their fingers as George takes his items or playfully flirty exchanges that leaves one or both of them speechless for a few seconds. It always goes back into an easy conversation quickly, as if nothing ever happened. But every time it happens, George finds himself stuck there in place longer than the last time.

“So, what did you think of  _ The Lightning Thief _ ?” Dream asks, making the brunette’s heart stop slightly. Thoughts racing way too hard for a fucking book review of all things. The brunette silently hopes that Dream takes longer to fill up the mop bucket in front of him than it does for George to get his thoughts in line.

“Uhm...well. I thought,” George’s mind is  _ racing _ trying to find a suitable answer besides saying he flat out hated the book. His mind ended up going blank. But Dream is still looking at him expectantly for an answer, fiddling with the mopstick ever so slightly, and George internally curses himself. Dream starts to mop as George finally starts getting his thoughts together.

“I’m going to be honest: I hated every second of it. Every part is more butchered than the last and the romance is so rushed, it can barely be  _ considered _ romance,” George doesn’t know why he’s so hung up on the romance parts, but he is, “And the characters are so two dimensional, and Grover is  _ always _ the third wheel. Give him a  _ break _ , you guys! Not to mention, it’s basically sacrificing accuracy of the original myths for shitty cardboard cutouts for action scenes that have no plot relevance, but are there to keep it relevant.” 

Dream stops his mopping for a second, the barista starts to grin and hold his free hand

to his lips, slowly breaking out into a small chuckle. Which, knowing Dream for as long as the brunette has, quickly ends in the blonde having a vice grip on the mop stick. Wheezing harshly like a broken dog toy.

“Oh, thank the Fates! I thought I was the only one who hated their book,” It takes a moment for George to process that Dream wasn’t upset, which quickly also turned to bubbling laughter from the both of them. Echoing across the walls of the now empty Starbucks. Nightfall just outside the doors.

“I didn’t like  _ Inside Poetry  _ much. It hurt my head to read and I think it’s more suited for you anyways.” The brunette cocks his eyebrow in response to that.   
  
“What do you mean ‘more suited for you’?” George sets his knees on the cushion of the stool he had been seated on, leaning forward on the counter as far as he can lean, and finally opts to put all his leftover weight on his elbows. Resting his chin on both of his palms.

“I was merely stating...that you’re kinda like this book. Textbook? Whatever. You’re like it.” Dream leans on the counter, discarding his task in favor of going down to the brunette’s level, noses almost touching. George’s eyes not being able to look anywhere else without seeing bits of Dream in his vision.

“Elaborate. Please? For me?” George whispers, feeling like a kid having a sleepover as he takes in every detail of Dream’s face, from his light amber eyes to his small dimple in his left cheek, and let’s not forget the smattering of freckles that dusts the bridge of his nose. Dipping into his cheeks like the stars outside twinkled in the night.

This boy was made to be put into stanzas, yet no words could truly describe his beauty. 

“Well, for one, you keep leaving behind your drabbles, when you have to leave in a hurry,” The blonde dips his head down and sifts through his apron pocket, taking out three or so small pieces of notebook paper, all of which had George’s messy scrawl of thoughts and puts the scraps between the two of them, “And you also have a lot of notes. That was my favorite part of reading it, I think. The little notes you’ve written between paragraphs. The way you’ve decided to answer the questions in the textbook. Leaving behind pieces of you in the paragraphs.” Dream is starting to ramble now, almost bordering on incoherent and senseless. George feels a shift in the atmosphere of the Starbucks that overpowers the sound of the AC or the scent of Pine-sol lingering from the currently unused mop bucket.   
  
“What are you trying to say, then?” George feels breathless, the sight of Dream drawing him in. Drawing them both closer and closer to each other. And the brunette thought they truly couldn’t get any closer than they were then.

“I think I’m trying to say that I’m in love with these little pieces of you tucked in the margins. While also being in love with the version of you standing in front of me.” George widens his eyes slightly, his mind faltering a little at the confession. At the sheer softness of Dream’s voice and the conviction his words held. George finds himself brushing a few of the barista’s (soft) blonde curls away from his face. Trailing his fingers down Dream’s temple and resting his own thumb on the other boy’s lips. Stilling Dream effectively and both parties meeting each other's eyes, knowing what to do next. But waiting for the other to make the next move.

“Thinking about waxing poetic against these lips, Snappy?” George snorts in disbelief, making them both collapse in a fit of soft giggles (Dream’s giggling sounds as if he’s choking, but the brunette is willing to let it slide). Slowly coming down from their giggle trip, George feels another silence settle upon them. 

With a silent vow to not let this silence linger, George pulls Dream’s lips in to seal said vow with a kiss. Slow at first, both tentatively wondering what is too much or too little for them both, but when Dream settles his palms on either side of George’s face. George sliding his fingers into those beautiful golden locks and both feeling so, so  _ right _ with their place here and now. George’s mind trails to a part of  _ Inside Poetry  _ that connects as perfectly as Dream’s soft lips do with his own:

_ Often, so many sorts of images or figures are combined or compressed in a line of poetry that it is both difficult and pointless to sort them back into their separate categories. _ __  
_  
_ Even when Dream pulls away, both of them slightly breathless. The barista going back to retrieve his mop and its bucket. Gliding past the brunette and giving little pecks and cheek kisses to him as he works on his closing activities. Wordlessly showing George how much he’s waited to be able to love him. And, after Dream declares the floor dried and the store suitable for the opening shift to operate (after getting upset multiple times beforehand at the brunette for teasing the idea of putting his dirty shoes on a just cleaned floor). When the blonde takes George’s hand and leads him out the door to his car. Not letting go of his hand, even as George protests for Dream to  __ please  put both goddamn hands on the steering wheel. And Dream merely laughs and responds with a loving kiss on his lips, making George smile even after the blonde pulls away.

George knows it would be pointless to imagine the two of them as separate, knowing that two opposites can make each other feel whole.

⤌--⤍

_ Msg from Dream: George! I read a new book :)) _

_ George: I’m opening up my list of never-to-reads. Gimme a sec.  _

_ Dream: :((  _

**Author's Note:**

> Karlnap fic + a piece for the AU "Holding a Crown Which Has Dried Blood on It" is set in that's soft Georgebur coming soon! Leave kudos and a comment if you liked it (or, if you want to! It allows me to continue doing what I love and it's totally free!
> 
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> 
> Have a nice day and thank you for reading!


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